


The Very Grumpy Inspector

by sehlat_charmer



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, The Very Hungry Caterpillar - Eric Carle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:48:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sehlat_charmer/pseuds/sehlat_charmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by a "Javert the Caterpillar"!prompt on the Les Mis kink meme.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Very Grumpy Inspector

**Author's Note:**

> Mostly based on Brick!canon, with a few movie details thrown in for good measure.

Once upon a time, in the city of Paris, there lived a very grumpy Inspector of police.

On the last day of May, which happened to be a Thursday, he pulled a gamin off the cornice of the Pont-Royal by his ear. But he was still grumpy.

On Friday, he happened on two junior policemen who were just about to leave a café without paying for their coffee and croissants. He gave them a dressing-down that made their ears ring and made them pay their bill to the last centime, and when the innkeeper protested and said this wasn’t necessary, he stared at the man until he got so nervous he gave the Inspector a useful tip – something about a wanted fence’s fondness for the café’s _tarte au chocolat_. But still the Inspector was grumpy.

On Saturday, the Inspector caught three thieves in the act of breaking into a store. The first one he hit over the head with his nightstick; the other two surrendered themselves as soon as they recognized the Inspector. As the Inspector never hit hand-cuffed men, not even if they richly deserved it, this was wise, but may have also contributed to his still being grumpy.

On Sunday, the Inspector was off duty. He engaged in his favourite pastime: browsing last week’s newspapers for anything that could be a new lead on two men he hunted after, the parole-breaking ex-convict and the recently escaped underboss of Patron-Minette. Having found some clues, he walked down four streets after Mass. But he found neither of his quarries, so he returned home, still grumpy.

On Monday, the Inspector approached a group of five young men, who were obstructing traffic in the Rue de la Paix and acting all-around suspiciously. He ordered them to clear the street, and they obeyed, albeit very reluctantly and not without insubordinate murmuring, which left the Inspector slightly anxious and, of course, still grumpy.

On Tuesday, the Inspector was sent on a special mission.  
In the course of this day and the next, he was shot at, beaten up, tied up, almost strangulated by a noose, scheduled for execution, and saved by his nemesis, to who he now owed his life. He helped building a barricade, gave a report to the Prefect of Police in person, lost track of a criminal he was pursuing, let not one, but two law-breakers go free (in his defence, he thought one of them already dead), had to question some of his life-long convictions, and pay an outrageous sum of money for a fiacre ruined by sewer muck.  
So, come Wednesday evening, he wasn’t simply grumpy anymore, but aching all over, exhausted, and, truth to tell, stark raving mad.

In the early hours of Thursday, he took a leaf of paper and wrote down some things he’d wanted to get off his chest for a long time, which probably made him feel better.  
Then he disappeared.

oooö

A few days later a well-dressed gentleman entered a police station, looking a bit nervous. He didn’t have to be, because he identified as a certain M. Fauchelevent, a respectable citizen of independent means and member of the National Guard. Even the faint odour of sewage that followed him was not too remarkable these days, what with all the pavement torn up during the recent unpleasantness.  
M. Fauchelevent stated that he, during a nightly stroll, had found a man in a bad condition, injured and drenched, on the Seine embankment. Knowing the hospitals to be overcrowded on that particular night, he’d taken the man home with him. He’d called a doctor; and when his charge had regained enough strength to speak – as of yesterday -, he’d learned he was an Inspector of police.

Immediately, a Police physician was assigned to have a look at the found-again Inspector. In M. Fauchelevent’s small house in Rue Plumet, he found the Inspector tucked up in bed, with only the vaguest recollections of what had actually happened to him. After examining the patient, the Police doctor saw neither reason to doubt this nor to change his civilian counterpart’s prescriptions.

 

The Inspector had to stay in bed for more than two weeks.

After, the Inspector walked the paths in the overgrown garden, on M. Fauchelevent’s arm, a bit farther every day. Or he sat on a bench in the sun, his host reading to him from the paper. In time, the Inspector could walk unassisted again, but didn’t object to M. Fauchelevent keeping him further company.

On a warm, clear night in August the Inspector, who always had had a keen interest in the stars, showed M. Fauchelevent the constellations: Lyra and Cygnus and the Milky Way above their heads. The two of them stayed in the old garden grotto until dawn.

In early September, the Inspector sent a note to the Prefecture regarding his new address: he’d rented the small two-room building in M. Fauchelevent’s backyard.

öooo

  
In mid-autumn, the Inspector returned to duty.  
A casual observer would have found him to be as earnest, correct, and diligent as ever, but those who’d known him for years were all agog, aghast even, for he was indeed a changed man:

He dragged gamins he’d caught making mischief to the parochial school his landlord financed. The boys tended to stay there, for a police officer repeatedly checking on you was topped only by the white bread and the glass of milk for lunch, paid for by M. Fauchelevent, when it came to incentive.

On rare occasions, the Inspector let minor offenders just go after giving them a stern lecture.

He made a habit (if you could call something he did once or twice a year that) of writing _Notes for the Administration_ whenever he deemed it necessary. This didn’t exactly endear him to his superiors; but they couldn’t deny the Inspector’s suggestions were always sound.

He almost sent the whole station into shock when he first brought fresh croissants for everybody.

But when the Inspector went on leave on _Mardi gras_ , of all days, the rumour mill went into overdrive, to be only slightly slowed down by a fellow inspector letting slip the Inspector had been invited to attend a wedding. A nosy patrol officer later reported that the Inspector had looked quite dapper in brand-new civilian clothing and had even worn a small piece of jewellery: a tie pin - a butterfly of silver and jet.

And so it came to pass that whenever junior policemen gathered over a bottle of wine to vent their grudges against stuck-up inspectors and sergeants, one of them would invariably exclaim: “Somebody should chuck that bastard into the Seine! It sure worked wonders for Javert.”

 

And the Inspector and his landlord lived happily ever after.

oooö FIN öooo


End file.
